A Matter of Dreams
by Mei Hitokiri
Summary: Sherlock is convinced it was all a dream, but that may not be quite the case. Part two in my "Songs of Inspiration" series, but can be read as a standalone.


This is inspired by Avenue Q's "Fantasies Come True". It's an amazing musical, I really recommend listening to the soundtrack... but, be warned, the music is certainly not safe for work!

As always, I appreciate all comments (including constructive criticism), so please feel free to do so.

~Mei

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><p><strong>A Matter of Dreams<strong>

When he had been offered lodgings at 221B, Sherlock had seen many advantages in the flat. He had checked for damp, underlying issues with stability or structural damage. The décor had been… unconventional at best, but that was no real issue. Yet there was one thing that even the great Sherlock Holmes had not accounted for. The thickness of the walls. No, indeed, he had never even considered the fact that the inner walls were incredibly thin. Now, however, it seemed like the single most important observation that he had never made.

It was around three am, and his brain was refusing to let him slide into the abyss of sleep. The first noise that he heard was a quiet whimper. He dismissed it as another of John's nightmares. Intending to settle the man, he crept up the stairs; careful to avoid the third and ninth steps because he knew those creaked. The door to John's room was shut tight. This was unusual. For a few months Sherlock had been going into John's room whenever the elder had nightmares. They both seemed to draw comfort from it; something that he, for once, didn't analyse too closely. He gripped the doorknob. It was cold to the touch, but not unbearably so. It turned easily and noiselessly; unusual in itself. John's door was slightly too big for the frame and the catch had to be coaxed out of its lock.

John was on his stomach, hands thrown up and fisted by the pillow. His broad shoulders were tensed and stretched, muscles bunching and flexing as he writhed on the bed. Sherlock took a step into the room, as John let out a small whimper.  
>"Sher-!" Sherlock stopped dead. Without fail, if John dreamed he would have nightmares. The majority of the time it would be Afghanistan; the shouting, the smell, the harsh feels of sunlight searing unsuspecting flesh. This was new. Completely new. Yet there wasn't time to analyse it. Why would John be having nightmares about him? That wasn't right. What had he done this time? He couldn't recall John having been angry with him recently. He hadn't even set fire to anything. John writhed again. Even from this distance he could see the sheen of sweat on the man's bare back.<p>

"John?" Sherlock stepped closer, now two paces from the door and four from the bed. John made a keening noise, as if he had heard his name. Sherlock took another pace forward. "John?" This time, John groaned. It was a guttural sound, purely animalistic and it sent a hot shiver down Sherlock's spine.  
>"Sherlock." There was no mistaking that tone of voice. He may not have been particularly well-versed in the intimacy, but he knew the sound of a voice that was thick with arousal. Sherlock gasped. He was three paces from John, and three from the door. His brain was firing at a rate of knots as it struggled - yes, struggled - to process this new information. He needed to lay the facts down, but time wouldn't slow enough to allow him. "Sher- Sherlock!" This time it was a drawn out noise. John was writing with purpose; not writhing, Sherlock noted. He was bucking into the bed, shoulders arched, hips thrusting against the mattress in increasingly frantic motions, until he arched high off the bed with a cry. "Sher-!"<p>

Sherlock's eyes flew open. He was on his side, face and chest pressed into the sofa. The flat was pitifully silent. As his senses returned fully to him, he became aware of a cooling warmth around his groin. Shaken, he rose slowly from the sofa, grabbed a towel from his room and trudged into the bathroom for a shower. He would examine what had happened later, but for now his mind was quiet enough to let him sleep.

Upstairs, John lay staring up at the ceiling, gradually un-arching his back. His skin was covered in a sheen of sweat. He let out a breath slowly as he groped blindly for a towel with which to clean up.


End file.
